


Scenes from Broken Years

by TheWoodenplank



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Lore - Freeform, Other, alessians, first era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:15:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28656315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWoodenplank/pseuds/TheWoodenplank
Summary: Three different stories from the years 1E361-363 during the opressive theocracy of the Alessian Order.





	Scenes from Broken Years

\---------------------------------1E361---------------------------------

Trenus Vem watched with growing unease as the final apprentices marched out of the academy gates onto the bridge towards the main City Isle. The Battlemages Academy had enjoyed some measure of peace through the early years of the Alessian Order. The remnants of the old aristocracy, dwindled and withered as it were, had retained a measure of influence and had loyally safeguarded the study of magic against the infringement of Marukh's zealots. That peace had ended a few days ago when lord Arrius, last of the great Nibenease magelords, had succombed to a long period of sickness. And thus fell the last defender of the Battlemages order.

The mandates had all been issued on the same day, and Trenus could not decide if that was for better or worse. The people of Cyrodiil had already become desensitized to the ever expanding dogma of the Alessian Order; almost daily a new, increasingly absurd rule was put into place and people had gotten so used to the idea - perhaps even bored with it at times - that they no longer challenged these propositions. For the aspiring new Battlemages, however, the new rules had struck like lightning; a thundering shudder that had split open their sheltered world and woken them with a jolt. Some of the new mandates were reasonable enough, Trenus thought, others were downright preposterous. But the apprentices were protesting all of them.

The outlawing of the School of Conjuration was understandable. Trafficking with daedra and enchanting the remains of the dead had never been a much respected branch of magic and even the most open-minded scholars had viewed the School with scepticism and at times even loathing. The outlawing of Mysticism was less understandable, though Trenus could see how it might seen reasonable to someone unversed in magic. He himself possessed a cursory understanding of most Schools of Magic, as required by his station as tutor, and he realized that while many magical abilities were housed in the School of Mysticism, the Alessians were likely only concerced with the trapping of souls - a practice that Trenus himself tolerated only for its extreme usefulness.  
Banning any use of healing spells from the Restoration School, however, was an abhorrent idea. That "pain and suffering were the proving grounds set by immortal Akatosh" seemed to balance on a line somewhere between sadism and callousness and that "death was simply a gateway to further Divine Proximity" sounded, at best, cold-hearted and ignorant. The teaching of elven students had also been strictly outlawed, but despite its abominable nature, Trenus took no issue with this decree as the last elven scholar had long since left the city for more progressive places of study.

If the mandates had stopped at this perhaps the Academy could've made do, perhaps the apprentices could find new passions for different studies and move on. But the Alessians, drunk on power or drunk on their unique brand of zealotry - Trenus could not tell - were not content to set forth simple, overarching rules. Battlemage guards were to be replaced by new soldiers appointed by the priesthood. All university books must be seized and approved by the clergy and only 'borrowed' to students and teachers who were 'of sound bodily and mental constitution,' as it were. Students must only dedicate no more than two consecutive hours to study before intermittent visits to the Temple of the One for prayer. The list went on. The Academy leadership had conceded most of these points and that was why the apprentices were marching to the White Gold Tower in demonstration today. Making concessions was fair enough, it was a necessary part of any agreement, Trenus had always argued. But making too many simply invited others to take advantage. And he was afraid. He was so very afraid that soon the sanctuary that the Academy had provided for young scholars of magic, for those daring and curious individuals who bowed not to the doctrines of the Order, would soon be overrun by zealotry, scepticism, and distrust.  
Trenus shook his heat fitfully as he watched the procession of apprentices disappear through the gates of the Imperial City into the Aboretum District.

He was shaken from his reverie when a colleague of his, a brilliant young Nord healer named Sura, came running towards him. The sight unnerved him strangely, for scholars of the academy were always known for their tardiness.  
"Please, Vem, you have to-" Sura shouted through her troubled breathing.  
"Slow down, my friend," Trenus said amiably, placing a hand on her shoulder in an effort to calm her down. She shook it off.  
"No, you don't- the apprentices, we have to bring them back - we have to stop-" she clutched her aching sides.  
"Now, now," Trenus hushed her. "They must be allowed to make their stand, if no one stands up to the Order now and then, they'll get away with anything."  
"No!" Sura shouted as best she could. "The Deacons - the headmaster just told me - The Deacons are waiting by the foot of the Palace. They're going to-"  
"Surely they wouldn't dare do anything!" Trenus protested. "So many- they would never-" he began, but with a shudder of fear he realized he did not believe himself. The blood drained from his face.  
"Let's go! Now!" Sura shouted as she set off down towards the gates of the academy, headed towards the city. Trenus followed as best he could, praying his old legs would carry him fast enough.

\---------------------------------1E362---------------------------------

Sorex Andronicus was sweating heavily despite the chill in the room. His wife had insisted that he wear his best for his appearance in court and he had agreed, but he now regretted the starched collar and the tightly fitted doublet. It was all he could do to keep from scratching at his neck. The judge and the court scribe sat high above him, both seated on high chairs - the judge's higher than the scribe's - which in turn were placed on raised pedestals. He had to twist his neck to look up at their faces.

The judge, who had recently entered and had now finally settled his great, crimson robes into a comfortable sitting position immediately called down towards him. "Sorex Andronicus of the Waterfront District?"  
"Yes, sir." Andronicus answered, eager to show cooperation.  
"The correct address is 'Your Reverence'. I shall let this be a warning. Repeated offences incur fines of one thousand drakes."  
"Ye-yes, your Reverence," Andronicus garbled. "Thank you."  
His wife was fidgeting behind him, but he promised himself that, no matter what happened, he would keep his calm.  
"You stand accused of blasphemy. How do you plead?" the judge said coldly.  
"I-I-I- I haven't really had anyone explain what it is I've-"  
"How do you plead?" the judge repeated with redoubled severity.  
"Not guilty, si- your Reverence."  
"And how do you intend to prove it?"  
"Your Reverence, I have never been accused of blasphemy before! Will you not allow me to at least hear the charge?" Andronicus pleaded, already failing to act calm.  
"You were reported to have passed the Temple of the One whilst failing to make the Sign of the One, in due deference," the judge replied acidly.  
"I would never fail to make the Sign of the One! Who reported me?!"  
"Let the scribe note that the accused has shown contempt for the procedure of the court," His Reverence noted briefly, before turning back to the accused. "It is not for you to know."  
"But Your Reverence, I'm telling you it was a false accusation!"  
"And how do you intend to prove that claim?"  
"Well can I make a guess as to who reported me?" - "Your Reverence," he added quickly. "It was Cavidus, was it not? Erlav Cavidus?"  
There was a slight murmur in the court, the scribe in particular failed to hide his surprise.  
"I knew it!" Andronicus exclaimed. "But the man hates me, Your Reverence. I sell twice as much at my stand as he does at his and now he's trying to drive me out of business with false accusations!"  
"If Erlav Cavidus has made false accusations under the Oath of Akatosh, he shall be appropiately dealt with in due time. For now, however, you have yet to prove your innocence."  
"But, sir!"  
"-Your Reverence," the judge corrected him with a snap, nodding to the scribe to mark down another Fine of Insolence.  
"Your Reverence, yes. If Cavidus made a false accusation, surely that proves that I'm innocent!"  
"Whether or not his accusation was false is yet to be decided. You, however, have yet to prove that you did not fail to make The Sign of the One when you passed His Temple.  
"But-" Andronicus protested desperately, having already forgot the proper address once again. "But if the accusation was false, surely I need not prove my innocence."  
"Did you, or did you not pass the Temple of the One on turdas the twentyfirst of Frostfall?!" the judge bellowed.  
"I did, -" Andronicus answered meekly, but before he could say more the judge roared again: "And did you make the Sign of the One?"  
"I did, your Reverence!"  
"Then prove it!" the judge was positively screaming by now, his face reddened with anger.  
"I-" Andronicus began meekly. "I- My wife, my wife she is here with me today. We walk past the Temple of the One every morning, morndas to fredas, as we go to the Market District. Ask her if it is not true that I make the Sign of the One whenever we pass."  
His wife was nodding eagerly as she strained to hold back her tears.  
"Circumstantial!" the judge roared contemptuously. "This does not prove that you did not fail to make the Sign of the One when you passed His Temple on turdas the twentyfirst of Frostfall."  
"But why should I fail to-"  
"Enough!" the judge shouted with a reverberating finality. "Sorex Andronicus, you have had one quarter of an hour to prove your innoncence, but have failed to provide satisfactory evidence, and I believe I have heard more than enough to pass my setence."  
Andronicus could only stammer, but the judge ignored him. "One year in High-Fane-Made-Pure, to mete out your sacrilege in holy labor."  
Andronicus's head sank meekly to his chest in defeat. Behind him, his wife collapsed into her seat, now concealing neither her sobs nor her tears.  
"In addition to this," the judge raised his voice again. "You are fined for a grand total of five thousand drakes for repeated contempt of His Enlightened's appointed Justices. If you fail to pay this sum before your departure to High-Fane-Made-Pure, the debt shall fall to your wife."  
He rose from his seat and adjusted the sleeves of his robes.  
"Dismissed."

\---------------------------------1E363---------------------------------

They had made their headquarters in one the darkest, most foul-smelling corners of the Imperial sewers network. The place was entirely lacking in almost any conceivable benefit except that it felt safe. Ita Avidius had worked with the resistance for nigh on two years by now, but she had still never gotten used to the smell. While they managed to secure a chamber away from the main 'flow' the stench was still palpable, as though the walls carried a coating of piss. If one considered evaporation and condensation they might well have been, but Ita chose to ignore the idea.  
The headquarters were sparse, even considering the location. Roughly half the members had proper beds, while grimy bedrolls on the floor had to suffice for the rest. Aside from those commodities, a map of the Imperial City upon a wall and rough table with a single tallow candle in the room's centre were all the adorned their headquarters. Presently, a man stood bowed over the table. The furrows in his brow were clearly visible even in the dim lighting. Today was a big day; a day when nothing was supposed to go wrong. And something had gone wrong.

"How much longer do you think we have to wait?" piped a thin man by the edge of the candlelight. Florus Clutumnus, within his one year of working with the resistance, had amounted to exactly as little respect and responsibility as he had when he started. Nevertheless he considered himself wizened and responsible enough to almost stand in the light of the meeting table.  
The furrow-browed man who stood over the table made no immediate answer. He only stared all the harder into the grainy veins of the wood, as though willing it to answer his questions.  
"Give him a moment more," he finally answered, the words barely managing to escape his tightened jaws. Even from a distance, sitting on her bed as she were, Ita imagined she could hear his teeth grinding. Adrian, their ringleader, was not normally a man of so few words. In fact it was his boisteroius confidence and easygoing manner that had kept them alive and fighting for this long, Ita imagined. But today was different, because today nothing was allowed to go wrong, and something had.

Sestius was late. Very late. Late enough to raise suspicion, and late enough again to be sure something had happened. Something terrible.  
Adrian's steel dagger was plunged into the table in its customary spot. A spot marked by nicks and cracks from those times when he had lost his temper. Ita admired how few such cracks were there. Setbacks and mistakes were weekly, often daily, occurences, and the frustration of leadership under such conditions would have reduced most men into chaotic frustration. But Adrian kept his cool most of the time; 'setbacks were setbacks and defeat was defeat, and they had yet to experience defeat' was his usual incantion against these frustrations. But occasionally nothing else would suffice than to angrily plunge a cold steel dagger into the wood and watch it crack violently. And today was a day for such frustration.

Finally Adrian pushed off the table and straightened up, looking around at the assembled. These days there were few of them, their own ring numbering some eight or nine persons, fluctuating with a few months interval as people joined and people disappeared. But few people dared join these days.  
"We need someone to go check on Sestius," Adrian announced. It didn't sound like a challenge or a demand; he knew he could usually count on volunteers.  
Ita got off the bed immediately, slipping on her worn sandals as she rose. "I'll go."  
Adrian nodded. "Someone go with her, I don't want anyone leaving this place alone. Not today," he said bitterly.  
Florus stepped up eagerly: "I'll go with her, sir."  
Adrian, who had long since gotten used to the idea of being called sir no matter how many times he told Florus not to, nodded briefly and waved them off towards the exit.

The walk to the sewer exit, a ladder that led up to the Temple district, passed with little conversation, except for Florus nervous repetitions: "I hope Sestius is okay."  
Sestius' house was in the Market District, and at times Ita was almost tempted to try to navigate through the sewers, rather than climbing to the surface where they would risk the eyes of inquisitive guards or clergy patrols. But for all their violent vigilance, the city was still not as dangerous as the sewers beneath. Rabid rats were, in fact, the least of their worries. Outlaws who, despite being no friends of the Order, were no friends of the resistance, and tribes of Goblins made their home in this foul smelling darkness. Darker rumous also abounded about the things that lurked in the sewers beneath the Arena Bloodworks - rumours that were, of course, forcefully supressed by the Order, whose doctrines tolerated no monstrosities within their hallowed city.

Ita and Florus emerged from the sewer into the basement of Adrian's house, dust-covered and seemingly abandoned it made for a terrific place to crawl out of the sewer, which might otherwise have attracted some attention; and in the Imperial City under Marukh, attention was almost always unwanted. They passed through the empty house in silence, and quickly slipped out the rusty-hinged door into the fresh air of the Temple district with simultaneous sighs. You really failed to appreciate clean air until you were bereft of it, Ita mused. They walked briskly through the streets of the district, neither too fast nor so slow as to look like they were loitering, heading towards the Market District, by way of the Aboretum and the Arena. Ita had not set foot in Green Emperor Way since Marukh gave his first speech on the Day of New Unity. As they passed the Temple they made the Sign of the One in front of their chests, nodding their heads meekly before the towering marble building.  
"It's folly," Florus whispered. "Akatosh is god of Man, he would never demand submission like this."  
"Shut up," Ita hissed back. "You're going to get us killed."  
Discussing theology, even were it orthodox, was a perilous undertaking. Saying something in direct opposition to Marukh's teachings was suicidal. Florus was about to protest but just then a legionaire walked past them on patrol and they both looked down meekly, dead silent as they made sure to repeat the Sign of the One.  
Despite herself, Ita began sweating nervously, like needles of heat were piercing her skin, in the nape of her neck, under the arms, in the small of her back. She normally prided herself on her calm; nigh on two years and never once had she drawn the attention of guard or clergy. But today was different. She had to struggle - they both did - not to walk too fast. Hastiness was the mark of a mind not at peace, which is to say a mind not of unitary emotion - so spoke the Prophet Most Simian, and looking overly hasty as you went along the streets could easily incur a fine. Ita had to bite her lip to keep herself from letting out a relieved sigh when they made the gate to the Aboretum without any incidents. She was normally never this nervous, she had long since learned to blend in and walk fearlessly among the crowds. But today something felt different, and that 'difference' was sending shivers down her spine.

They pushed open the gates of the Aboretum and entered in silence. Ita still remembered when the gardens had been lush and diversified. Now, however, they consisted only of a small circle of seven plain, leafless trees arrayed around a statue of The Dragon God. Ita almost whispered to Florus how shameful it was, but she checked herself just in time. There were fewer guardsmen here, but also far fewer people among which to mingle. It used to be a place of picnics and leisurely strolls, but these days any walk outside was a risk. The unatural doctrines punished the slightest deviance. Ita had first decided to join the rebellion when one day she had seen a woman accosted by guards for walking 'in too careless a manner,' as she had been swinging her arms about. The three guardsmen who had confronted her fined her a hundred drakes, and when she refused to pay, they fined her another five hundred for insubordination. Ita had been watching it all from some distance, seated by the statue of Dibella, which had still been standing then. At first she had found the spectacle ridiculous, almost amusing in its absurdity. But when the woman had refused to pay the fine for insubordination, one of the guards had hit her; struck her across the face with his mailed fist. Even at a distance, Ita could see the bright red scars where the chainmail links had torn across her cheek. The woman had not even time to recover before another guardsman kneed her in the groin and she collapsed to the ground. And then they dragged her off - towards the palace or the prison, or somewhere else, Ita never found out. No one had dared intervene, no one had followed. Everyone had simply stared in shock.  
When she thought back to that day Ita always kicked herself. She felt she should've known then. They all should've known then, but it had seemed impossible. Such cruel misuse of power must surely have been an isolated incidence; three corrupt bastards drunk on power, soon to be suspended from the guard force. But it had only been the beginning. For three bloody years people were arrested, people were beaten in the streets, and people disappeared tracelessly into the darkness of the Imperial City prison. Soon the prison had grown overcrowded and people began to disappear out of the city; large wagons full of beaten, broken prisoners chained together and driven off to uncertain destinations.

It had gone slowly at first. 'All citizens must offer praise at the Temple of the One at least once per week,' seemed reasonable; Akatosh and the Divines had, after all, led humanity out of slavery to the evil Ayleids, proper thanks was only decent. Then the 'consumption of snakes and adders' was forbidden, for their scaly, serpentine nature likened them to the draconic aspects of Akatosh - a preposterous claim even to people not versed in symbolism, but one that slipped by unchallenged for no one much cared to eat snakes or adders in any case. But these were only the fledging steps of the Marukathi opression.  
Whether the Prophet's sanity had truly declined, or whether it was the accelerating intoxication of power - shared also by the large priesthood and their abettors - was impossible to say. But one way or another the restrictions, the propositions, and the mandates had grown increasingly absurd as the Alessians consolidated their power over the years. They had also grown rampantly numerous. The mere mention of the name Auriel was outlawed, Aldmeri names were scourged from public mention; their Cyrodilic translations replacing them in every context to avoid incurring massive fines. Travel outside Cyrodiil was heavily restricted, only the northern border towards Skyrim - the only other kingdom 'not twisted by abominable elven influence' - was kept open. But the rules also permeated the minutest details of everyday life; the catching or eating of fish was outlawed for some arbitrary reason, the consumption of beef on weekdays was considered sacrilegious, any cloth (be it banner or clothes to dry) hanging from windows must be strictly red or golden in hue, every citizen must attend the sermons of Marukh's priests once daily to join in the chant of Proper Life, any girl or boy between the ages of eleven and fourteen mustn't fare in the city without the accompaniment of a like-gendered individual no younger than seventeen, but no older than twentyfour, except between the hours of eleven AM and three PM. Ita doubted whether even the most devout could recall but half the rules of Proper Life, and indeed doubted whether anyone even knew how many commandments that oppressive mandate entailed. At times she wondered if these laws were not made up upon a whim, an arbitrary excuse to arrest a troublesome individual. Finally, when one day a demonstration against a series of new doctrines had turned into a bloodbath, Ita's fear had finally surrendered to her sense of justice and she had joined the resistance.

They had crossed the Arboretum and pushed their way through the Arena District, where, ironically, Ita felt safer than anywhere else, for the throng of people and the loud excitement of the crowd absorbed you so fully that might as well have become invisible. Here, in this blood-crazed district was the only relaxation of Marukh's edicts, for it was quite simply impossible for any guards - even a small legion of them - to navigate the crowds and enforce the ludicrous rules.  
"We ought to have our meetings here, barbaric as it is," Florus suggested.  
He had almost been shouting, but Ita wasn't afraid of being heard. There was not a guard in sight and she had barely heard him over the din of the crowd despite standing right beside him.  
"Not a bad idea!" Ita shouted back. "Almost safer than the sewers, I guess."

As they pushed through the gate to the market district and closed the doors behind them, the noise of the Arena instantly grew muted as did Ita and Florus. There was no more danger here than in the Temple District, but somehow the nearness of their destination accelerated their heartbeats and made them all the more afraid of detection, as though fearing their pulse might be heard. They made their way to Sestius' house slowly, feigning interest in the wares of the shopkeeps and meekly performing the Sign of the One whenever they passed a member of the priesthood. The priests blessed them in return, presumably they looked like some young married couple - an idea that seemed laughable to Ita, but all the better to avoid attention, she thought to herself.  
Sestius' house was one of the smallest in the Market District. Tugged into a backalley, it was free of the bustle of the main thoroughfares and Ita sighed with relief as they turned into the alley; a retreat from guard patrols and curious eyes. Ita and Florus walked briskly now, less afraid of looking suspicious but ever more determined to get safely inside the house as fast as possible. They found Sestius' address in a moment. The door was broken down.

Florus let out a small gasp. The wood was split brutally through the grain, and the remains of the door were only loosely attached to a single remaining hinge. Ita only hesitated a moment before stepping inside. Splinters from the door were spread all about the entrance. A vase lay fractured on the floor, the flowers it held already fading in their little puddle of muddy water. Ita walked on down the hall as though in a trance, heading towards the basement. Another ravaged doorframe told her she was headed in the right direction, and she descended down the stairs. The basement was in complete disorder. Barrels worth of food, drink, and miscellaneous clutter were scattered all over the floor; the bed (for Sestius had always made a bedroom of his basement) was in disarray; the pillow and mattress were shredded open with their stuffing covering the floor. There was no trace of Sestius. A cold panic gripped Ita and she hurried back up the stairs and outside where Florus was still waiting, fidgeting nervously. Ita was panting with fear as she stepped outside and they caught the attention of an old woman, standing by a house down the alley washing clothes in a large tub of dirty water. Ita threw caution to the winds and rushed over to her.  
"Did you see what happened?"  
The woman pretended not to hear, though she clearly had.  
Ita was not deterred: "That house with the broken door, did you see what happened?"  
"None of my business," the woman grunted and returned to her washwork with redoubled attention.  
"Please, madam, my cousin lived there, I just want to know what happened," Ita lied desperately.  
The woman hesitated a moment longer, "Deacons took him," she whispered hastily before she returned to her washwork.

And just like that Ita knew they would never see Sestius again. Gone to the dungeons of White Gold or to the facilities at Malada. Simply tracelessly gone. There would be no court, no trial, no fines or prison sentences. The Deacons did not arrest people, they made them disappear.  
It was all Ita could do not to sink to her knees in despair. She might well have, if Florus had not been tugging at her shoulders. "Ita, we have to leave. Now!" he hissed as he pulled her with him.  
She threw one last, mournful look at the broken door and the shattered home behind it before she shook her head and followed Florus out on the streets.  
Sestius was gone. Gone the way of Amierinus and Nial and Titus who had never betrayed the location of their headquarters, and Colin Artorius who had refused to sentence a pair of newlyweds to prison for vowing fealty to eachother instead of Akatosh, and the founding bishops Accalia, and Numida, and Vedius who fell from favor, and abbot Adamus who grew alienated with his own religion and opposed a rule that tolerated no opposition, and Villius, and Zedrick and her darling Aemilia who had lived a life so innocently she never suspected anyone would hate her for it, and Accalia, and Aberius, and Arrianus, and Aconia and Celina, and Pitro and Amandia and Astara, and Sergius, and Varius and Augustina, and Brittia, Caecilia, Philius and Nicolas, and Octavia, and Patia, and Ennis, and Pelona, and Livius, and Talia, and Vesta, and the unnamed hundreds tortured to insanity in the depths of Malada or tossed in unmarked graves, willed into nothingness by a Prophet and his Deacons. The tears, unrestrained now by caution or shame, welled in her eyes as her soul swooned bitterly with the desperation of all the broken lives.  
'But the rest of us will live on to fight another day,' she thought to herself. 'Hopefully.' That was all there was to it; another day, and another day. Hopefully.


End file.
